Concrete Coloured Sky
by katemary77
Summary: You remember the tear at your throat, the trembling in your hands. You remember his mouth against yours, his warms lips against your sated skin, a flame in your blood, and you rush to the door. BlaiseHermione.


_Concrete Coloured Sky_

"Is that it, then?" he asks.

_Is it? _You wonder the same thing.

He's looking at you, his dark eyes seeing everything and a blush rises in your cheeks.

You're still unused to this kind of intimate scrutiny, and your hands itch to cover your face, body, breasts.

You don't want to see him anymore, don't want to feel this on your skin. This burning.

You turn your head, and he nods.

_That's it then. _

Unspoken.

He turns and walks out the door, doesn't look back, and each footstep pounds against your heart like a drum.

But anything was better than that burning. Even this feeling that's inside you now, clutching at your heart, scratching at your skin.

As he walks out of your house, walks out of your life, you hurt. You wonder if you'll ever feel that burning again, and the thought of not sends a ripping through your throat.

Touching a hand to your cheek, you're amazed to find that you're crying.

Seconds tick by in silence, each one feeling like a year.

You're waiting. Waiting for him to burst through the door, to touch you, to come to you and hold your face in his hands and tell you that he understands, that he loves you.

There's no sound. He doesn't come.

You don't understand this. You understand everything, but you don't understand this.

Why isn't he coming?

There's an ache deep inside you, tearing you in two.

You look up at the world and think of regret. It's the worst feeling in the world, you've decided, and your hands shake with the uncomfortable emotion.

Something sticks, heavy and still, in your throat.

The world had become colourless, and you push those fingers into your soft stomach, those fingers that have whispered across skin, felt, touched.

You've sent him away, you know that now, and you can't see anything that could bring him back, anything that could erase the past, shadow out those words that had spilled out of your wide mouth like pearls.

You hate yourself, like this. Wish you had the courage to leave, to take control, to cut out memories, cut words from where the hang heavy in the thick air.

You hate this.

Lighting flashes in a distant land, somewhere far from where you are now, and the motion of light against grey draws your eyes outside.

He's there. Waiting. Like some sad part of you knew he would be.

He never could walk way, not from you at least.

But can you? You're unsure. A hand goes to your mouth as you watch his stiff back, his dark hair, down by the lake.

Can you do this? You're not sure.

Regret is the worst feeling in the world, you know, but you're not sure if you can escape it, can take control, cut your own path, cut your own words into the thick summer air.

Not sure you can give you life away to your heart quite yet.

You remember the tear at your throat, the trembling in your hands. You remember his mouth against yours, his warms lips against your sated skin, a rising heat in your belly, a flame in your blood, and you rush to the door.

As you run, you wonder if you always knew this would happen, wonder if this choice was always made, before words, before breaths, before hearts.

You reach him, and it becomes difficult to think.

"I'm sorry," is the first thing that comes to mind, and you blurt it out. "I hate you."

_For doing this_, you scream, _for making me this._

He turns. His hair hangs in his eyes, but you can feel them on you, all over your body, your skin.

It hurts. It burns.

"You're a thief, you know," you tell him, not quite sure of the meaning behind these words that you say.

"What did I steal?"

Words, his first words, wash over you like the rain does, fresh and welcome, chilling the burn of his eyes. It all makes sense now.

"My heart."

You breathe.

He watches.

You wish he would speak again, save you from the growing feeling that you've made the wrong choice, spoken the wrong words.

But then he kisses and you feel his heart beat beneath your hand.

And suddenly it all makes sense.

2/11/2005


End file.
